“May we not cross swords, Mon Ange”—she turned her face, brushed her lips against his—“but raise our glasses together at the end of days.” It was the same good-bye she always gave her fellow spies. Her trademark. The spies were her only family, after all.
Her lips touched his ear. “Watch your back.”
—
AS ANGEL DISAPPEARED into the intermission activity in the halls beyond, Lilias turned back to the other occupants of the box. They all watched her. Expectantly.
“The performance is wonderful.” But of course, that was not what the dowager and her daughters-in-law were interested in.
“I should not have mentioned his music,” the dowager said quietly. She clutched at her fan. “It is private. Forgive me, and please do not mention it again.” Her lips were pinched, drawing in her cheeks. Lilias could see that Angel had inherited his mother’s sharp cheekbones.
“Do not worry.” Lilias gave a tiny head shake. “It will remain private.”
“Until he chooses to share.” Mrs. Whitmore smiled at her. Her smile held both warmth and sadness. “Do not force him, Mrs. Fairchild. Everyone has painful secrets.”
“You do not need to tell me of painful secrets. I understand them perfectly.” She wondered what secrets the lady hid behind her soft brown eyes. She was a widow, which they had in common. But Mrs. Whitmore would not understand what it was to watch men die. To kill. To hold a dying love in her arms. Or to learn the depth of betrayal.
“This is the most maudlin conversation I have ever had at the opera.” Elise, Lady Angelstone, stood up and crossed the box to take Angel’s seat. Her eyes were bright and mischievous. “Don’t let us scare you. Angel is the only male left in our family. The poor man must be continually defending himself against four women.”
“Four?”
“Well, three women and a six-year-old girl,” Lady Angelstone qualified. “But I daresay little Maggie counts as a woman when a man is so significantly outnumbered.”
“I just barely remember the age of six.” It seemed a lifetime ago. She smiled at the sudden memories of bright summers and green grass and fishing holes. And the little village boy she’d been desperately in love with. “I would have most definitely counted myself a woman.”
“We’re not sure if Maggie counts herself a woman or a soldier.” Mrs. Whitmore laughed. “And Grandmamma does not help!”
The dowager bristled. “Nonsense. Maggie is precocious, that’s all.”
“Which you encourage,” Lady Angelstone said, raising a brow. She leaned toward Lilias. “Maggie is also blood-thirsty.”
“Which I encourage, much to her mother’s dismay.” Angel’s deep baritone penetrated the box. He stood in the doorway, a glass of punch in each hand. A grin flashed. It was meant to be carefree, but it did not reach his eyes. Those eyes were hard and sharp.
Something was wrong.
“So you do.” Mrs. Whitmore pursed her lips. “That better be punch for me, as recompense for your blood-thirsty teachings to my daughter.”
He transferred the glass into her fingers. “Of course. The other is for Mrs. Fairchild.” Gold eyes slid their way, lit on his other sister-in-law in his seat. “Have we traded places, then, Elise?”
“Forgive me, Angel. I commandeered your seat.” Lady Angelstone stood and shook out her skirts before returning to her seat. “And I daresay Maggie shall overcome your lessons soon enough and become a proper little lady.”
“You are likely right, Elise. But she does seem to enjoy my lessons.” Angel reclaimed his seat and extended the punch glass to Lilias.
“Thank you,” Lilias said, accepting the glass. She cocked her head. “Just what lessons have you been teaching your niece?”
“Napoleon’s battle strategies versus Wellington’s.”
Lilias choked. “You haven’t.” She was lucky the punch hadn’t sprayed across the front of the opera box. The patrons below might have disliked the slightly used beverage.
“She’s partial to Wellington’s strategies, but I think she may be biased.” Eyes gleamed with amusement. “She might like to hear your opinion on Waterloo.”
Now it was Maggie’s mother’s turn to choke. “Oh, heavens, no. I don’t need Maggie thinking she can go to battle.”
There was a collective pause in the box. Lilias’s battle experiences had barred her from numerous drawing rooms. There were many that pretended they hadn’t happened, simply because she was a favorite of the great Wellington. But it was never, never discussed.
“Is there something wrong with fighting for your country?” Angel’s words were soft and dangerous.
Lilias could see the hurt roll through Mrs. Whitmore. A tremble of lips, the tightening of her jaw.
“There’s nothing wrong with fighting for your country, Angelstone, as you well know.” Lilias tapped her fan on Angel’s arm. He did not need to defend her at the expense of his family. “But perhaps I should tell Maggie I wish I had never experienced it.”
“Truly, this conversation cannot become any more awful than it is. Did we not already decide we were maudlin this evening?” Lady Angelstone smoothed out her skirts. “Do you know, Mrs. Fairchild, I love that shade of purple in your gown. But I wonder if the entire ensemble wouldn’t look better with the addition of bright orange.”
The entire Angelstone clan groaned. Lilias only laughed. “I hadn’t thought of orange. But now that you mention it, perhaps I can find orange trim for my skirt.”
Chapter 27
“THEY DIDN’T MAKE you feel uncomfortable, did they?” Angel leaned into the open door of the Fairchild carriage. The lights of the opera house blazed behind him.
“Not at all.” Lilias settled back against the seat. It sighed beneath her. “But they tread lightly around you.”
“What?” His brows jerked up. “Me?” The door was just barely wide enough for his shoulders. He blocked out the front of the opera house, the porter, the theater-goers as he leaned in.
“Yes. They are afraid for you.” She tugged at her opera gloves. They were beginning to slide down her forearms. An inferior cut, she decided. “They are afraid something will happen to you before the title is secure. They are afraid of you being a spy—which they are quite aware of, even if they pretend they are not. And they hurt for you because of whatever pain you hold inside you.”
He said nothing. Only continued to lean part in, part out of the open carriage door.
“I’m not afraid for you, Angelstone. Or of you. Whatever dark place you have, I have it, too.” Why she was irritated by this subject she could not say. She thumped her fist on the front panel of the carriage to signal the coachman. The horses jerked in their harnesses, ready. “Now, get out of my carriage.”
He surged forward. His hand cupped the back of her head. Lips met hers. Hard and possessive and full of heat. Her hand fisted in his cravat. She wanted to make love to him. Here, in the carriage. Now. He could join her under the pretext of escorting her home.
But it wasn’t that simple. They were not that simple. It had gone beyond the mindless give-and-take, the mindless need. She could feel his anger, his desperation as he captured her mouth and consumed her as though this kiss were a final good-bye and he must take the memory with him forever. Her heart trembled, her breath hitched as that desperation seeped into her.
He let her go with a final nip at her bottom lip. The door snapped shut without even a semblance of good-bye. She exhaled. One long, full breath. All that hunger and need translated to a marvelous kiss. The kind that took a lady’s breath and scattered it.
The carriage began to roll. She sank into the cushions and watched London pass her window. She was becoming far too attuned to Angel. His moods, his emotions, even his slight irritations. She wondered if he was becoming accustomed to hers. And what did that mean?
His family was quite protective. But she suppose
d they would be. Three direct males to inherit the title but only one survives—and that one is a spy. Not particularly good odds for keeping the line intact. And they were all dependent on him to some degree.
She hadn’t realized the level of his family commitment. The affection had been clear in his tone, his teasing. It was a level she hadn’t thought of. He was, to her, a spy. The man with a family of females clamoring after him was someone she hadn’t known existed.
The carriage rumbled to a halt with a muttered “whoa” from the driver’s perch above. Lilias frowned. It was too soon to be back at Fairchild House. She hadn’t been paying attention, but she was certain not enough time had passed.
She pushed the curtain aside. Beyond the window, shadowed buildings rose above the street. Curtains hid the candlelit interiors so that she could not judge the quality of the neighborhood. She didn’t recognize the street. It was shabbier than the fashionable districts. Broken wrought iron fences grinned at her like mouths with missing teeth. She could wait and see, she supposed. No doubt it was a lame horse, or—no. They should not even be here. They were in the wrong part of town and stopping when they had no reason to stop.
Her brows snapped together. She half rose from the seat and pushed open the carriage door. Peering out, she searched the shadows for any threat.
Nothing. Only darkness punctuated with squares of light and the sound of faraway voices. The shadow of another carriage rolled away down the street.
Crack! A gunshot rent the air. Horses whinnied and the carriage lurched. Lilias fell back against the seat in a jumble of skirts and lace. An involuntary shriek ripped from her throat.
Shouts rang out. Running feet pounded the walkway outside. The carriage dipped and someone grunted as they jumped onto the coachman’s box. The sound of flesh pounding flesh thudded above her.
They were being robbed. Footpads. Vagabonds. The driver would be injured. He was young and inexperienced. He was not trained to fight.
Hooves clattered on the cobblestones as the horses bucked in their traces. The carriage rolled back, forward. Pitched. Another shout sounded above, then a dull thump as something heavy fell.
She wasn’t having it. Not her driver. He was her responsibility.
Setting her jaw, Lilias pulled up the seat opposite her. Jeremy’s pistol and a short knife lay hidden beneath the expensive, plush cushion. She had never used the blade. But the knife was sharp, the pistol loaded.
Ignoring the delicacy of her new silk slippers, she kicked open the carriage door and jumped out on the cobblestones. Darting onto the sidewalk, she set her back to the buildings. Her gaze swept across the street, searching for help. No one. Her breath wheezed out. No one but her.
Instinct had her crouching, lining the sight of the pistol as she swung her gaze toward the carriage again. The sound of rending silk followed her. She ignored whatever torn gown or petticoat she’d find in the morning and focused on the moving shadows.
Two men grappled on the box. She couldn’t tell which one was the driver. She couldn’t even guess well enough to take aim.
Leaping forward, she scrambled toward the coach. Muddy water saturated her slippers as she splashed through a puddle. She didn’t notice. Her only goal was the two men.
“Halt!” she cried out.
They didn’t even acknowledge her.
“Damnation.” She leapt forward, intent on climbing up the side of the coach.
Crack!
It wasn’t her pistol. It was her first thought. When she watched one man atop the box slump and collapse, fear enveloped her. “No!”
It had to be the coachman. He had no training. No experience. He was just a young man, with a new wife—
The sob gathered in her throat, but she jumped back and aimed her pistol at the man still standing. He bent over, riffled through the coachman’s jacket, then stood again. Light flickered over his face, but she could make out nothing aside from a strong jaw.
“Get down from the carriage.” Her voice was cold. Steady, even. Pleased, she bettered her aim. Prepared to shoot. “Now.”
“Ah, Lilias. You are as magnificent tonight as you were at Waterloo.”
“Damn—” She broke off. Her knees sagged in disbelief. She’d expected the criminal to be a stranger. “Angel?”
“Of course.” He bowed, sweeping his arm out as though he were a charming courtier rather than a murderer standing on a carriage seat.
“Did you kill him?” She straightened her arm, aiming the pistol carefully at his heart.
“Yes.”
She swallowed the sob. The coachman’s poor young wife. “I’ll kill you for that.”
“Blood-thirsty wench.” He sounded approving. “But I think you’ll find there’s nothing to kill me for.”
He flipped something through the air. Light sparkled over metal before the small object hit the cobblestones at her feet. Keeping the pistol trained on Angelstone, she reached down for the object. Her hand closed around a small metal disc.
She didn’t even have to look. She could feel the engraving against the palm of her hand.
“He is not your driver, Lilias.” Angel jumped down from the carriage, boots landing solidly on the street. “He was an Adder.”
—
“HE’S GETTING BLOOD on your carpet.”
Lilias eyed the assassin. He was bound, arms and feet, and lying on the floor of Angel’s study. The Adder wasn’t dead, as Angel had thought. Yet. The bullet was lodged in his side. The wound wasn’t mortal, but without care he would die. She knew it, Angel knew it and so did the assassin.
Black eyes snapped above the gag in the assassin’s mouth. His gaze was as bright with fury as with pain. She turned away.
“Thank you for sending someone to take the coachman home.” Lilias pushed back her cape to work at the fastening at her throat.
“It was sheer luck I saw the assassin push him off the carriage seat.” Angel’s fingers closed around a short crystal glass. He set it in front of him and reached for the brandy decanter. “I’m sorry I was so far away when it happened. I would have caught up with your carriage earlier.” He splashed a significant amount of brandy into the glass.
Lilias raised a brow. “Thirsty?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” But he didn’t drink from the glass. He turned toward the assassin.
“Here.” Angel knelt beside the man and pulled the gag from his mouth. “Brandy.” He held a cup to the man’s mouth.
The assassin turned his head away and cursed. Savagely.
“There’s a lady present, you cur.” Angel cuffed him with the flat of his hand. The assassin sucked in a pained breath.
Pity stirred and Lilias drew a deep breath before burying it. She knew espionage wasn’t pleasant. She’d seen death and pain and suffering herself. It was senseless. And sometimes it was necessary.
“Drink the brandy.” Angel held the glass up. “It will dull your pain a little.”
“And my wits,” the assassin bit out.
“Likely so, with the amount of blood you’ve lost.” Angel tipped the cup against the man’s lips and plugged his nose so he had no choice but to swallow. “We’ll both benefit from the brandy, then.”
While the man sputtered and cursed again, Angel examined the wound with detached scrutiny. The wound was low in his side and bleeding sluggishly now.
“Damn. I aimed for your heart.”
“You need more practice.” The assassin bared his teeth. “You missed.”
“Obviously. From the looks of it, I managed to miss every possible organ.” After a disgusted shake of his head, Angel stood.
It was almost like they were discussing the poor execution of a punch thrown at Gentleman Jackson’s.
“Well, infection might carry you off.” Angel’s conversational tone ceased and his face went hard. “If you’re ver
y lucky.”
Angel moved to the doorway and gestured to her. She threw the assassin one quick look as she crossed to Angel. The Adder’s dark eyes followed her every movement. He licked his bottom lip, one quick dart of the tongue. The hair rose on her neck.
“What do you intend to do to him?” she whispered.
“Ask him a few questions.” Angel paused. “Alone.”
He said it nonchalantly, but he didn’t fool her. She slid her gaze toward the assassin. Now pity did stir in her breast. Whatever he was, he was still a man.
“Don’t kill him.”
“Is that your only qualification?”
“For heaven’s sake—”
“I have questions. He has answers. And he’s an assassin.” His eyes turned to golden chips of amber. Hard. Sharp. “I need to know the name of their leader.”
“I’m aware of that.” Lilias set her hand on his sleeve. “I’m also not idiotic enough to believe he will come through this unscathed.”
“Such calm acceptance of torture.”
“Stop.” It seemed he wanted to antagonize her. She slid her eyes toward the assassin, then back to Angel. “I said, I’m not an idiot. But I don’t have to like it, and I don’t have to condone murder.”
“Then you’ll obtain your wishes, my dear. He’s worth more to me alive than dead.” He shook her hand from his arm and stepped away from her. He was a stranger to her in that moment, as much as the assassin was—and just as dangerous. “Sir Charles will want to question him, in any case.”
He turned, leaving her with nothing but a view of broad shoulders still clad in black evening wear.
She narrowed her eyes as temper spiked. “I’ll wait in the hall.”
Spinning on her heel, Lilias strode from the room to pace in the hall. She didn’t know why he was being an ass. She’d made a simple request. She didn’t whine or nag. She hadn’t cried or thrown herself over the wounded assassin. She’d asked for mercy. No more, no less.
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